Christmas Summer
by SailFullOfGold
Summary: The Yard has chosen to hold their annual Christmas Ball in summer, much to the consternation of Sherlock. However, having been convinced-or coerced to attend, Sherlock may find that there is a reason for Christmas celebrations.
1. Chapter 1

The event was to be charming and enchanting. The only difference was that this time they decided to have the Yard Christmas party in July.

"Silly and frivolous as the event is," Sherlock said to John, "having the occasion in the summer only compounds the tediousness of the occasion." The justification given by Lestrade and John was that having the event at the renovated manor house was new and creative, as the last few parties were becoming exceptionally boring, repetitive and devoid of attendance.

John was thrilled about the idea. He kept going on about how fun it would be to stay in an old estate home with Mary. Convincing Sherlock to attend was a chore, and John's last attempt was almost a loss. However, a last ditch argument citing the fact that Lestrade would be there for the weekend and none of the other inspectors world work with Sherlock, leaving him to a very boring weekend.

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The manor house was renovated to maintain the decor of the era in which it was originally constructed, around the early eighteenth century. The entryway, the sitting rooms, the dining room, the Great Hall, the library, the drawing room, and the numerous guest rooms were all elaborate and impressive. The estate boasted a blooming and grand garden. The grounds were expansive with lush green grass fields tucked up neatly against the edge of the forest. Small benches were hidden behind lavender and honeysuckle bushes, placed decoratively beneath ancient oak trees planted centuries ago.

Although pricy, the headcount for the event was upwards of one hundred attendees. This, of course did not appeal to Sherlock, who silently thought to himself he could easily find solace in the library. Perhaps Mary and John would be too engaged with the activities below that they would forget about Sherlock, leaving him to the peace and quiet of his room; along with the wifi password and his laptop.

The afternoon of the guest's arrival was buzzing with the sound of excited couples, footmen running here and there, and worst of all Christmas carols. The weather has been warm and muggy, with the evening rain showers the only relief from the heat. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he, John, and Mary walked through the grand entrance and followed subtle signs to the reception.

"Hello, one room under Wa..." John began to the concierge.

Brushing past John, Sherlock interjected, "Two king suits, for Holmes." John and Mary turned to Sherlock, silently stunned. "Please do close your mouths, you look like mute choir children. The giving and receiving of gifts is standard cultural protocol, yes? Well Merry Christmas, and all that."

"Sherlock!" Mary hugged him with loving enthusiasm. "Thanks a million! I knew you were sentimental deep down the dusty hallways of your mind palace!"

"Yes, yes." Sherlock said with exacerbation, rolling his eyes as he patted Mary's back. John did however see the pleased smirk that surfaced on Sherlock's face before Mary broke the embrace.

The bell boy, having loaded their bags and dress bags on a trolley, bowed and said, "Sirs, Madam. If you'll please follow me."

Sherlock followed behind the two lovers noticing how Mary slipped her arm comfortably into John's. He suddenly felt in the pit of his stomach the unfamiliar feeling of loneliness. It had been showing its ugly head more often now that John was spending more of his non-working hours with Mary. Sherlock found himself pestering Lestrade for more cases, even those lower than a seven. He was also soliciting Dr. Molly Hooper for any spare or interesting organs and limbs she may come upon. He had even established a workstation in her lab to conduct experiments in the interim between cases.

He began finding Molly's company gravitating and their conversations stimulating. She was now used to his presence, and found herself at peace with his direct criticism and aloof manner. He had noticed she was more engaging when he talked aloud, prompting curious perspectives and sometimes innocent but off color humor.

He knew she would be attending this weekend. He also knew she had been without a partner now for several months... Sherlock realized he had let his mind wonder without purpose or direction. The frequency in which this was happening was becoming maddening; it was unrestrained and distracting. And yet, he couldn't help but notice the pattern; when his thought process derailed, it was almost always instigated by the petite pathologist.

I haven't posted in ages, but I'm feeling the creative bug lately! It's pretty light and fluffy, but I felt seeing as summer is almost over, I better get this one down on paper before the next season inspires another story.


	2. Chapter 2

Friday evening's events consisted of a dinner of soup and salad followed by a cocktail hour in the main sitting room. Forgoing dinner as usual, Sherlock set up a workstation at the suite's corner desk: a gaudy piece of furniture with excessive detail.

"Sherlock," John said to the back of Sherlock's head, barging into Sherlock's room after dinner. "Come down for a drink. Not even half the guests have arrived and there is a nice dark and brooding corner just calling your name."

"No." Sherlock said shortly and without any inclination for further discussion. He was currently processing data gathered on the reactions between various toothpaste brands and plaque buildup in the mouths of several new corpses.

"Oh, because studying the causes of bad breath in the recently deceased is so much more engaging, right." John said with heavy sarcasm.

"Yes, John. Well done. You are coming along nicely in your dedication to criminal science and the pursuit for justice." Sherlock retorted without skipping a sarcastic syllable.

John heaved an exasperated sigh, turned his heal, threw up his hands and headed for the door. Sherlock watched John's retreating figure in the reflection of the glass window in front of the desk. Refocusing his eyes to view the grounds outside, Sherlock saw two figures strolling down the north cobble stone walkway toward a bench beneath an oak tree roughly fifty yards out. The woman, Molly, he recognized immediately. Her gait, the unique rhythm of the sway of her hair pulled back, and the impulsive way she looked to sunset coloured clouds, to the rustle of the honeysuckle bush they were passing, to the fountain at the far end of the grass field.

Her partner, on the other hand, walked with a lazy pace, dragging the heels of his feet along the path. His shoulders we hunched with a few decades of poor posture. Most likely a career desk job. The man's hair and attire called more for a walk along a board walk rather than dinner and cocktails at a grand estate. Not Molly's taste at all, he knew Molly and her taste in men. His summation of the man informed Sherlock that he had little time left with Molly.

"Really, Molly," Sherlock said to himself, "Rather disappointing." But he did not return his focus to the data on the screen in front of him. Sherlock watched Molly. He had found there were other moments like this, when her actions, her expressions held his attention.

Tonight she was wearing tiny white flats that complimented her modest rose and white lace sun dress. "Mary's shopping influence, no doubt," thought Sherlock.

The dress held her well, and she walked with comfort. "Why does she never let her hair down?" Sherlock continued to himself. "It would draw a viewer to her thin, slender neck and frame her face..." Sherlock shook his head and cleared his throat. Pointedly turning his head away from the window, Sherlock made for the kitchenette to make tea.

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The next morning Sherlock rose early. Having slept for five hours, he felt sluggish. Although he hated to waste time exercising, he knew his transport needed maintenance in order to function at maximum performance. He made for the grounds and its many foot trails.

Despite what Sherlock told himself in his internal narrative, he enjoyed the feeling of his heart pumping frantically and his muscle contracting with every forward thrust of his body. Forty five minutes later brought him back to the edges of the vast lawn behind the manor house.

He slowed to a walk and permitted his gasping breath a moment to settle. However, before he allowed his heart rate to fall any lower, he dropped to the ground and began a set of rapid pushups. Ignoring the sweat running off his unshaven face, he maintained count, forcing his mind to focus on the number and not the burning in his arms. Routinely he used this exercise to set the pace for his mind for the day ahead.

As Sherlock was climbing the intricate stone staircase, taking the stairs two at time, he looked out over the scene. Normally he would not be distracted by occasions as routine and monotonous as sunrises, but here with the mist rising over the grass and the echo of the morning bird songs from the forest, he could not help but be drawn into the coluors of the clouds. At that moment, he and all of his momentum collided with someone descending the stairs just as distracted by the locale and its charm as he was.

Instinctually he wrapped his arm around the individual's small frame, simultaneously searching for baluster with his other hand. Despite his efforts, the pair fell backward down the stairs, thankfully for Sherlock who took the burden of the impact it had only been four. Grunting and tumbling down, Sherlock held the person atop him at the bottom of the fall. Sherlocks eyes were closed tightly in pain, but when he opened them, his mind was thankful to have assumed the assault from the twin enemies of gravity and granite.

Molly was looking down at him with eyes wider than the Atlantic Ocean.

"Sherlock! Jesus, what the hell are you…You, you're bleeding!" Molly exclaimed at first with frustration which quickly turned to concern.

Sherlock continued to stare into her eyes. He had become frozen, unaware of the throbbing above his right eye, the stabbing pain in his side, or even the words Molly was saying. His brain and body had been completely taken off guard, not by the collision and subsequent fall, but from the way his arms wrapped tightly around her frame, the weight of her body against his already flushed skin, her loose hair that had fallen around her face, and the emotion in her eyes.

"Sherlock…are you ok? Can you hear me?" Molly said louder, now concerned that he had been seriously hurt. She made to move her body off his, but his arms impulsively flexed around her holding her fast. It was her turn to freeze. Her hands were pressed against his chest and she could feel intricately the tension he was holding in his pectoral muscles, his shirt was damp with perspiration, and the atmosphere around him smelled of sweat, heat, and musk. She reveled in every sensation, and felt the instant heat in herself rise.

Within the span of that second stolen moment, Sherlock blinked his eyes and made to rise. Molly quickly did the same, looking away to hide the flush that rose to her chest and cheeks. But the sharp gasp of pain from Sherlock as he sat upright dashed her shyness away, and snapped her into doctor mode remembering the gash above Sherlock's eye and the blood oozing down the whiskers his jawline.

"Molly, are…are you ok?" He asked in a tight breath. Sherlock held his right side and began dabbing at his brow to assess the damage.

She had never, _never_ heard _him_ stutter before.

"Christ Sherlock! Yes, I'm fine thanks to you. But you, come here…don't touch that with your dirty hands!" She admonished him as he continued to prod his brow. He paused immediately, unused to being scolded as such.

He regained himself, "Fine," he said flatly. With that, he removed his shirt in one swift movement, balled it up and placed it firmly to the freely flowing gash.

Molly stood for a second, stunned. Not from his blunt childish attitude—she was used to that, but from the instant visualization of the glistening, muscular torso of the man she'd been trying to remove from her fantasies for the last five years, and until now, was very nearly achieving that goal. Recently, the amount of time Sherlock was spending in her lab had helped her become comfortable and more herself in his presence. She felt confident when they engaged in a discussion about his cases, and now never hesitated or stuttered when calling him out on his attitude or behavior. The allure of him never left her, but these days she was able to control it.

Huffing out a breath of air, Molly steeled herself and grabbed his arm. "Come on, you need to see John."

He winced at the sudden movement, but followed her without resistance, "What? John? No, he'll just fuss. I'm fine! Can't you just…"

"No," Molly said firmly. Although, thinking to herself, she could most likely stitch the wound with more precision than John. As a primary doctor, John no longer saw lacerations requiring stitches. She on the other hand, stitched up bodies on a daily basis.

"The adrenalin from falling and coffee racing through me is making my hands shake. If I do it now, you may end up with your eyelid sutured to your eyebrow." She did not see, but he silently sniggered at her wit and flushed cheeks. "Now, what room are John and Mary in?"


End file.
